Blackbird Singing in the Dead of Night
by APat96
Summary: After fighting in the war overseas, Percy comes back as the only survivor of his unit. He is broken, damaged, hurt. Annabeth isn't sure of much at this moment, but she is certain of one thing: that she will be there to put Percy back together again.
1. Chapter 1

Thunder cracked in the sky. Lightning, as well. The rays of purple, white-hot light illuminated the pitch-black night, casting shadows on the objects in the room. It was during a particularly loud roll of thunder that Annabeth was jolted upright in bed, gasping for breath and panicking. She hated thunder. Abhorred, it actually. Thunder was nothing more than loud noises to wake her up in the night.

She turned next to her, where Percy should have been. He wasn't, though. His spot was vacant, the sheets and blankets tussled, the mattress just giving off a hint of his remaining body heat.

As another crack shook the house, and lightning lit everything up once more, Annabeth slipped from the bed, padding softly to the living room.

He hadn't been sleeping well, ever since the war. It had been months since he had steeped off the airplane, head held high, in his decorated uniform. People cheered him as he walked by; he was a hero. A child even asked for his autograph.

Little did they know, that he had collapsed in her arms, sobbing like a child, unable to breath. He shook with sobs, his tears silent, as he clutched onto her for dear life, his face growing red from lack of oxygen. Little did they know.

Percy had been the only one of his men to survive. At thirty, he held the guilt of ten lives. Countless times, he had told Annabeth of holding an eighteen-year-old boy in his arms as the boy bled out. Often this story was accompanied with tears.

Ever since the war, he hadn't been sleeping. He hadn't been eating. Nights meant waking up, screaming, and trying to attack your wife, for PTSD crazed belief that she was the enemy.

Annabeth had been patient though, deflecting his disoriented punches and calming him back to sleep. Holding him when he needed it. Because that was what you did when you loved someone. You couldn't just bail when things got tough.

Now, as Annabeth walked into the living room, she expected to see Percy pacing crazily, wringing his hands and muttering under his breath, or doing countless pushups. Take your pick; this was how most nights ended up.

Instead, she was met by the pitch-black room, silent, save for the rolling thunder. And then, once illuminated by lightning, she saw the blood drops along the floor, trailing off to the corner of the room.

"Percy?" She called, softly, calmly, so as not to scare him. "Are you alright? Have you injured yourself?"

Then. He came stumbling from the dark, his eyes glazed over, blood trailing down his arms. A knife held tightly in his hand, dripping blood to the floor.

"Percy. Why don't you put the knife down and we can talk? How does that sound?" She gulped back a scream, continuing on in a calm tone. Her voice wavered, though.

"You bastards think you can kill them? You fucking assholes!" Then, his face shifted, angry, hurt, and he lunged forward, striking her arm with the knife. Sharp, hot pain overcame her, and she grabbed for her arm, feeling the warm, wet blood on her fingers. And then he came at her again.

Annabeth swept into action, dodging his stabs, knocking the knife away from him with the back of her hand. It fell to the floor with a clatter.

Then, he turned to her, bare hands clenching, and lifted a monstrous fist, cocked right towards her face.

In an instant, she had him pinned on the ground, sitting on his back, holding his fists. She glanced down at his thick arms. He had cut himself; there was blood seeping down his hand.

Grunting, she quickly grabbed the tie from the curtain next to her, wrapping it tightly around his wrists. Then, she stood, crossing the room to get to the kitchen, where they kept the first aid kit.

When she came back, Percy had rolled over, still dazed, but calmed down significantly. He sat still while Annabeth bandaged his hand, only cursing at her and spitting in her face a small handful of times.

Sighing, she placed the box on the floor and crouched next to him, resting her elbows on her thighs.

"Percy, honey, it's time to go back to bed, now."

"You bastards can't tell me what to do!" He muttered.

Groaning, Annabeth looked up to the ceiling, closing her eyes as she prayed for patience, and stood.

"Jackson!" She yelled at the top of her lungs. "This is your commanding officer! Get your ass off the floor!"

He suddenly perked to attention. "Yes sir!"

Annabeth stood in front of him and quickly undid the tie around his wrists.

"I want you in your bed, asleep in five. You hear me, Jackson?"

"Yes sir!" Percy yelled back, saluting her and then running from the room.

Annabeth sighed, shaking her head and picking up the first aid kit once more. She opened the metal lid, pulling out some gauze and disinfectant.

Her gaze fell to her arm, where a long gash lay. Though it was long; it was not deep, and she quickly dabbed away the blood and bandaged it with ease.

Then, her attention turned towards the room, where blood droplets covered the floor and the furniture was in various stages of disarray. Sighing, she put the cushions on the sofa back in place, righted the fallen lamp, picked the books up from the floor, and straightened the rug.

She trudged back off towards the kitchen, first aid box in hand, and returned with a sponge and bucket of water. She got down on her hands and knees and began to scrub at the blood, some of which had already dried. Pink foam bubbled as she pushed the sponge back and forth, sweeping the area in circular motions.

Annabeth awoke the next morning; face down on the rug, curled up in a ball. Beside her, the hardwood floor gleamed with cleanliness. She looked up, only to see Percy standing over her, concern in his eyes.

"My, uh…my hand is cut." He said softly. "Did I have a relapse?"

Ever since the night terrors had started, Percy had been aware of the toll they were taking on Annabeth. He hadn't even wanted to start a family; for fear that he would hurt their baby. And so Annabeth decided to give him some peace of mind, even if that meant forfeiting hers.

"No, babe, you slept like a rock through the storm." She answered, pushing herself up off the ground with a grunt. "One of my vases fell over when the house shook, though, and our bed got covered in glass."

"Why didn't you wake me? I could've helped you clean it!" He pouted. "Look at you! You cut yourself!" He said, tracing his fingers over the bandage on her arm.

"Yeah, well, so did you."

"Thanks for bandaging it." He smiled, reaching towards her for a hug. "Still can't believe I didn't wake up."

"Maybe your medication is working too well." She muttered, pasting a tight smile on her face as she walked away.

"Wait, honey, why were you sleeping out here?" He asked after a moment, rubbing his head.

"I gotta get ready for work. We'll talk later." She replied, closing the bathroom door behind her.

Once inside, Annabeth braced herself on the porcelain sink. She stared herself down in the mirror, and was immediately disgusted by what she saw.

Black bags hung on her face, and red veins popped up in the whites of her eyes. Her skin was pale, and she had even gotten so skinny so as to be able to trace her collarbone across her chest. She sighed.

He had to have known, right? He had to have known something was up. She didn't keep vases in their bedroom. There was no glass in their bed. Wives didn't just randomly fall asleep in their living rooms with cleaning supplies next to them. Certainly not in the middle of the night, at least. He had to have known.

Was he ignorant, or just stupid? Did he just not want the truth? Was he unable to face the truth? Could he even _handle _the truth?

She threw cold water in her face, to get rid of the bloodshot eyes. She brushed her teeth, and combed her hair. She slathered makeup on her face, a large quantity. To hide the bags, the premature wrinkles, the paleness.

Then, and only then, was she ready. Ready to help her husband. Ready to power through another day. Ready to lie awake another night. Ready to, once more, relive this nightmare that she had gotten herself into.


	2. Chapter 2

False happiness. That's what it was. She should have even gotten her hopes up in the first place. Thinking that things would get better was for optimists: people who saw the glass as being half full. Annabeth, however, was certainly not an optimist. She was a cynic.

She was allowed two nights of peace before the terrors began again. This time, she was awoken to the sound of smashing glass. Annabeth didn't even hesitate this time, choosing instead to bolt from the bed and into the other room. She didn't even pause to check to see if he was still in bed.

Her heart jumped to her throat, prickling with the adrenaline that came from being woken up in the middle of the night. She entered the room, feeling the soft rug on her bare feet. Something sharp prodded her toe, and she stepped away to avoid it. She could smell sweat in the air.

"Percy? Are you there?" She called, checking around her for any sign of impending attack. "Honey?" Her eyes swept over the room.

"Annabeth?" Came his voice, tentative and afraid. "Are you there?"

"Yes, honey." She sighed, glad that he was not asleep. "Have you broken something? Are you hurt?"

"Can you turn the lights on?" He asked. She thought she heard panic in his voice.

Alarmed, she jogged over to a lamp and turned it on, wincing as her eyes adjusted to the light. Her vision quickly fixed on Percy. She gasped.

A glass bowl lay broken on the floor, pieces shattered everywhere. The glass shards had fanned out, spanning the whole room, and, at the center of it all, stood Percy, eyes wide, hands holding his stomach, which bled bright, crimson blood. He dropped a large shard of glass to the ground, leaving bloody fingerprints on it, as if the glass were on fire.

"Percy!" Annabeth cried, running to him. Before, she had stood in shock, staring at the glass, and the blood. She quickly reprimanded herself and jumped into action. "What happened to you?" She reached out, lightly touching the wound, which lay along his side. He winced, and reached for her hand, grasping it tightly in his own.

Annabeth held him for a few moments, grasping his hand and pressing her own against the wound in hopes of stopping the bleeding.

Getting a towel and her car keys became nothing more than an afterthought, and she jumped up retrieving the items while helping her husband to stand and stagger towards the door.

"Wh—where are we going?" He mumbled, as if suddenly realizing where he was. He groaned against the leather seat, tilting his head back against the headrest. Annabeth handed him the towel, instructing him to press it tightly against his torso.

"Where are we going?" He asked again, turning his head forty-five degrees to see her face.

"To the hospital." She answered, turning her head and shooting him a wary look. "What happened, Percy?" She whispered quietly after a moment.

He groaned, turning his head towards the window and rubbing at his forehead with his free hand. He was silent for a few moments, his breaths slowed, and Annabeth almost thought that he had fallen asleep.

"I woke up with a shard of glass in my hand." He mumbled. "I…I stabbed myself."

"Honey, it's going to be okay." She replied, rubbing his knee soothingly. "I bet it was just a case of sleep walking. You probably just dropped the bowl, and…"

"I _stabbed_ myself." He repeated, his tone lacking emotion. He was blunt.

Annabeth decided to leave him be, and remained silent for the rest of the drive. She looked ahead at the dark road, he at the trees and houses that they passed.

Once the car had been parked in the hospital parking lot, Annabeth allowed Percy to stagger out, hobbling towards the entrance. He refused her attempts to help him in any way, and she fell behind, walking a few feet behind him and not saying a word.

The light inside the hospital was brighter than that at home. Luminescent. Accompanied by the smell of rubbing alcohol and various cleaning products. From her nights spent cleaning up Percy's messes, Annabeth had amassed quite the knowledge of cleaning products.

"Yes, sir, may I help you?" An orderly asked from behind the front desk of the emergency room, giving a cheery smile unworthy of the late hour. Several nurses and doctors worked their way from bed to bed in the wide room, greeting other patients who had had the misfortune of getting stuck in the ER in the middle of the night.

"I…I need…I need…" Percy muttered, before sinking to the floor, eyes rolling back into his head as he passed out.

It was then that a group of nurses and doctors swarmed him, disallowing Annabeth to get within a five-foot radius. She was shoved several times.

"He's got a pulse, but it's weak." Yelled one of the doctors, bending over to put two fingers to Percy's neck. "Obvious trauma to the abdomen."

"Let's get him on a gurney, people." Commanded another doctor, instructing the others on how to lift him.

They had Percy lying on the gurney, holding the towel to his torso, beginning to wheel the stretcher down the long hallway, towards the set of double doors.

"Do we have a name, people?" Annabeth heard the same doctor ask.

"Percy Jackson." She yelled back, her hands trembling. She made eye contact with the doctor as the group went through the doors. "His name is Percy Jackson."

An orderly came and went, handing Annabeth a stack of forms to fill out, pointing out a place to sit, and assuring her that everything would be okay.

Finally, after over an hour of excruciating anticipation and worry, the same doctor from before emerged from the double doors, his scrubs wrinkled and rumpled.

"Mrs. Jackson?" he asked, nodding to her as he headed over.

"Yes? Is Percy all right? Did you fix his stomach?"

"Yes, ma'am, he's all stitched up." The doctor nodded, though his face still held a grim expression. "He's lucky it was just a very deep flesh wound."

"So he's okay?" She asked, her eyes watering slightly. Ashamed, she turned her gaze, not meeting the doctor's eyes.

"Well, he passed out, as you know, from losing a large quantity of blood. We've got him on blood transfusion, and we're going to keep him here overnight for observations."

"Oh." She said, sinking back into her seat. She tried to look sad, and terrified, and hoped she wasn't failing too badly.

"Mrs. Jackson, I have to ask." The doctor said, settling in the chair next to her. "Most wives would be sniveling, crying messes right now, if they heard what I just told you. They would also be begging to see their husbands. You, however, look…relieved."

"No! Of course I'm sad, and terrified, and…and…" She stifled a yawn. "I just have faith in this hospital's abilities, and…"

"Ma'am," He interrupted, "Mind if I ask how your husband wounded himself?"

And so Annabeth broke down, complete with tears, and confessed to the doctor everything that had been going on since Percy's return. Even down to the injuries he had inflicted upon himself and upon her, even about the sleepless nights she had spent cleaning up after him.

"I'm just so….exhausted!" She exclaimed, dabbing at her face. "I have slept for more than two hours in over three months!"

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Jackson. May I call you Annabeth?" She nodded.

"I'm just glad that I won't have to worry, even if it's just for a day. I hate to be selfish, but I'm running myself into the ground!" She stifled another yawn, her eyes closing momentarily for a good ten seconds.

"Mrs. Jackson," The doctor said, startling her from the beginnings of sleep. "I'm off the clock, now. How about I stay with you to keep you company?"

"That sounds…nice." She replied, yawning again. She leaned her head against his shoulder, which suddenly felt like the softest pillow in the world, and hoped that she wasn't crossing any lines by doing so.

She fell asleep this way, finally allowing herself a selfish moment, in which she could assure herself that Percy would be okay, and that she had no obligations for the next twenty-four hours.

Freedom, as tentative as it was, felt amazing: calming, delicious, _sinful_, almost. And, though it pained her to admit it, she didn't feel guilt.


	3. Chapter 3

_There's a house on Juniper Lane. A small, yellow house, with a white picket fence, a green, box of a lawn, and the shade of a tree to keep it cool in the heat of the summer. A happy couple lives there. She's a school teacher, witty, young, beautiful. He just got back from serving overseas. A Captain in the army. Also witty, young, handsome._

_Except for the woman has black bags under her eyes. And scars up and down her body. Bruises. Fresh cuts. And the man? He's got the same. Cuts, bruises. Stubble. Stained clothing. Sits on the couch all day, probably drinking._

"Percy!" Annabeth cried, racing forward. "The doctor told you not to drink on these new medications!" She yanked the bottle from his lips. He had already drunk half the bottle of wine. From the looks of disorientation, that hadn't been all he had been drinking.

"What have you had to drink? How much?"

"Why does it even matter?" He slurred, trying to stand but failing miserably.

"Because you shouldn't be drinking! You're on several new medications, and they had you under anesthesia in the hospital—who knows what could happen!"

She looked at the creamy, white label pasted to the glass. The green was so dark; it was almost opaque. The remnants of the burgundy liquor sloshed around inside. She peered at the label. It was the bottle of wine from their wedding. Supposedly, they were saving it for their fiftieth anniversary. So much for that.

"Why not?" He glared back, running a shaky finger over his lower lip, where a plump drop clung to his skin. "Give me one good reason."

"For me, Percy." She responded, perching on the chair opposite of his. "Don't you want to live, so that we can be happy together?" Her eyes were both wistful and pleading.

"But we wouldn't be happy." He interjected. "You would be running yourself ragged trying to keep me from hurting myself. From hurting _you_. I'm a monster." He slurred in a whisper, staring at the floor.

"You are _not_ a monster." She murmured. "You're sick. You just need a little help." She stood from her seat, giving him one last, longing glance as she left the room, leaving him to wallow.

There was truly no way of telling whether or not his medication was working. He passed out, most nights, drunk. Annabeth had no way of stopping the drinking, though, unless she caught him in the act. Scolding would only go so far.

He had been upset that she was lying to him. Lying to him about the medication. He was horrified that he had hurt her. He had promised her never would.

Yet, in trying to prevent his horror, she caused it, _intensified_ it. He treated her as a liar, a betrayer. A Benedict Arnold. It was as if she had cheated on him, or stolen large amounts of money from him, or killed his dog. At least, that's how he was treating it.

Imagine Percy's horror upon waking up in the hospital, surrounded by doctors, knowing that he had stabbed himself. Imagine that. Now imagine the hurt he had felt when a psychologist was called in to speak with him about his 'violent' tendencies. Imagine _that_. Now, finally, imagine the shock that comes with knowing that his wife was in on it the entire time. And that he had hurt her. Imagine. That.

Annabeth shook her head, walking down the narrow hallway and into their bedroom. She just had to be patient. She had to see where he was coming from to help him. She just had to wait for things to work themselves out.

She straightened the covers. The white comforter was stained with an unidentifiable brown liquid. Scotch, probably. The bed reeked. Of sweat, of stale booze. Of someone who had given up.

Sighing, she began to strip the bed, removing the offending linens and throwing them to the floor. She took from the closet fresh linens, smoothing them over the firm mattress, hoping to erase all signs of failure. Failure as a woman, failure as a wife, failure as a friend.

Just as she had finished tucking in the last blanket, she heard the breaking of glass in the other room. Per usual, this prompted her to run, dropping the forgotten soiled linens, sprinting for her husband.

The first thing she saw was broken, green glass. The wine bottle. She swore, knowing that she should have taken the bottle with her.

Next to it, brown glass. Beer, probably. When he had bought a six pack, she had no idea.

Next to _that_ was Percy, lying face down in a puddle of vomit.

"Holy shit!" She exclaimed, racing forward and lifting his head. His eyes were closed, though she knew they were bloodshot underneath. "Oh, Gods, Percy! Wake up! If you can hear me, wake the fuck up!" She screamed, her eyes flitting across his face, searching for any signs of life.

Nothing. Nada.

Taking a deep breath she rolled him onto his back, her fingers groping for a heartbeat. There was none. His skin was getting colder, bluer, from lack of oxygen.

She whipped out her cell phone, dialing 911.

_"911, what's your emergency?"_

"Uh…my husband…Percy Jackson….he's passed out….not breathing."

_"Okay, ma'am, does he have a heartbeat?"_

"Uh, no, I…I don't think he does." She pressed her fingers back to his neck. "No. He doesn't."

_"Okay, ma'am, I'm going to send Emergency personnel over. They should be there shortly. In the meantime, do you know CPR?"_

"Uh…yeah….yes. I took a class back in…February. "

_"Okay. I'm going to stay on the line with you. Do you feel comfortable administering CPR to your husband?" _Annabeth was silent. Was she? Did she know what to do? What in Hades was she supposed to do?

_"Ma'am? Are you still there?"_

"Yes. I'll do CPR."

She opened his mouth, giving him two breaths, per her instructor's directions. She began chest compressions, pushing hard into his sternum until she could hear his ribs snap, a sickening, wet pop that could have made a squeamish person vomit themselves. Not her.

She continued chest compressions, pushing down with the heel of her hand for thirty beats and then switching to giving him two breaths.

After a minute or so of CPR, his eyes broke open, his mouth opening to gasp for breath. Annabeth fell back on her knees, grappling for the phone.

"He's awake! He's breathing!" She yelled into the phone, pulling a hand to his face and caressing it slightly.

_"Okay, ma'am, personnel will arrive shortly and take him to the hospital. Make sure that he doesn't slip back into it. Keep him breathing and conscious. Leave him where he is, though. Don't try to move him."_

Annabeth agreed, thanking the woman and snapping the phone shut. She heard a knock on the door and uttered a brief _'it's open.'_

Percy's eyes tracked her, though he did not speak. Bloodshot, green orbs that used to enthrall her. He held panic in his eyes, and his hand reached for hers, holding it as tightly as he could muster. His face was dirty, stained with his own vomit.

She squeezed his hand back as uniformed medics ran in with equipment.

"I'm here for you." She whispered, struggling to keep back the tears that prickled her eyes. "I'm here for you."


	4. Chapter 4

The room smelled of sick. Of sweaty, pasty skin, of cleaning products, of rubbing alcohol. The constant beeping and buzzing of various machines was enough to drive a person mad. Enough to drive them to the brink of death. Enough to kill.

"Where the hell am I!" Percy jolted up in bed as best he could, wincing when he could not and accepting a half-seated position.

"You're in the hospital, Mr. Jackson." The doctor jogged to his side, shining a pen light in his eyes and checking his stats.

"Why….why am I in the hospital?" He narrowed his eyes, searching the room. The doctor, of course, stood next to him. Beside him stood a nurse. Next to her was his wife, Annabeth. Her eyes were open, black underneath, as if she hadn't slept in days. Her mouth hung open in shock.

"Mr. Jackson," The doctor began, sighing. "You're in the hospital because—"

"Because you blew your fucking heart out, you asshole!" Annabeth screamed, dissolving into tears. The nurse grabbed her before she fell, helping her into a chair.

Percy's wide eyes flicked back to the doctor, who stared at him with—what was it—pity? Yes, his eyes were narrowed, as only a pitying man could do, and his mouth was set in a grim line.

"Mr. Jackson, you are here because you had a heart attack." The doctor said finally, never once breaking eye contact. "You essentially stopped your heart in mixing prescription medication with alcohol."

"But…you…you got it started again, right? You fixed it, right?"

"You have your wife to thank for that, actually." The doctor gestured to where Annabeth sat crying in a chair. "She administered CPR and saved your life."

"I….I….but…." Percy was at a loss for words. His wide eyes searched the room until he finally collapsed, defeated. He sighed through his nose, a deep, mournful sigh.

"You're lucky." The doctor continued. "You won't need a heart transplant. Or a liver transplant, for that matter. But we're required by law to give you drug education and therapy for the time being. We'll also have to keep you for a couple days to monitor your progress."

Percy nodded, silently.

"If you need anything, there's a call button right there," The doctor said, pointing to a small red button mounted on the wall, "And there will be a nurse checking in on you every two hours."

And then Percy was alone. Alone in the hospital room, left to wallow in his own guilt. Except he wasn't alone. No, his wife's constant sobbing reminded him of that. He was not alone.

"Annabeth." He said finally, imploring her to look up, to at least meet him in the eye. "Annabeth."

"What?" She whispered finally, looking up. "What do you want me to say? That cracking your ribs and getting your heart started again was all in a days work? That you drank enough to kill a horse? That I found you face down in your own vomit?" She laughed ruefully, her eyes wincing, as if she were in physical pain. "Because….I….I can't." She whispered, pawing at her eyes and trying to keep more tears from coming. She failed miserably.

She sat there, trying to hide her tears, in silence for a few moments, until he gave up. He slipped back down into a flat position, and turned his head away from her as best he could.

He tried to fall asleep, to put an end to the nightmare that had become his life. But no one, not even the most heartless of monsters, could fall asleep while their wife sat sobbing mere feet away.

"You should have just let me die." He whispered.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been three weeks. Three weeks since Percy had left the hospital, since he had returned home, since Annabeth had decided she was leaving him.

There had been premonitions, of course. One does not simply leave a sick man. One does not simply leave their husband. One does not simply leave the love of their life. And yet the time comes when leaving is the only thing one can do. When leaving someone is better than staying. When you've already tried everything else.

And so she booked a room at a local motel. Far enough to get away, but close enough to come running should anything turn wrong.

The room itself was dirty, unkempt, unclean. The sheets stank of liquor and smoke, the lampshade was stained and marred with cigarette buttes, and the carpet crunched under her feet. But she had nowhere else to go. No family, no friends, no money, no nothing.

She missed her yellow house. She missed her trim lawn. She missed her husband.

Her husband. Such a funny title. Especially since he wouldn't be so for much longer. No, he would just be some man. Some sick, scarred man. Someone who had done no wrong to her. Someone who just needed someone to stay by his side and help him through it.

But she wasn't that person. No anymore, anyway. If you can't handle the heat, get out of the kitchen.

But he had been so kind to her. So great, so supporting, so loving.

He had gone to war for her; to protect her, he said. He had gone to make sure the bad guys were defeated. He had gone to war.

And they had written each other. They had written, and called, and skyped, and _contacted_ each other, no matter what, to assure the other of their own survival. It was what they had needed.

But that didn't change the fact that he wasn't there. That didn't change the fact that She spent each night hugging her pillow, wishing for it to be living, human flesh. That didn't change the fact that she still set a place for him at the dinner table every night. That didn't change the fact that he spent every night asleep in the barracks, clutching her photograph and talking to her, as if she were right there with him.

But he had come home. He had. In his army fatigues, a grin plastered on his face as he walked off the sole survivor of his unit. He had saluted the children he passed, grinning at them and doling out high fives. He had tipped his hat at the elderly woman for whom he had held the door open.

And then, of course, they got to the car. And they were alone. There was no one to smile for, no one to put an act on for. And he crumpled, clinging to her chest like a small child and bawling his eyes out, sobbing and clutching the fabric of her shirt.

_"Please, please don't make me go."_

_ "Make you go where?"_

_ "Please don't make me go."_

_ "No one is making you go."_

_ "Please don't make me go."_

She hadn't realized until later that he was talking about coming home. About facing the reality that men had died. About attempting to assimilate into society again. About facing the dark new life that awaited him. She hadn't realized.

He hadn't wanted to return home. It would be too hard. He just wanted to stay in a place that would keep his mind off of what was happening.

She tried so hard to stop beating herself up over this. She tried and tried and tried. But it didn't work. And so she cried. And cried. And cried.

And when crying proved itself futile, when her lack of tears only frustrated her more, she baked. She made pies, and cakes, and muffins. Because, try as she might to deny it, she was traumatized, too. And she needed something to keep her mind off of it.

Then, of course, had come the night terrors. And the fighting. And the violence. And the rest, as they say, is history. Bye bye marriage, bye bye life.

It had been a good marriage, for a brief period of time. She had to pride herself on that one. It had been a good marriage, up until it had turned bad.

Sighing, Annabeth pushed herself from the dingy bed, snagging her car keys and walking out of the room with the sole intention of seeing Percy, of talking to him. Even to just hug him and tell him it had been a good run.

Fight it as she might, she was addicted.

The car sputtered away down the street with ease. She knew the webbing of roads like the back of her hand. And, as she drove up Juniper lane, just as she had so many times, she paused to watch the houses go by, McMansion after McMansion. There had been kitschy, New England style houses there when they had moved in. Somewhere along the way, the big name builders had crept their way up along the street.

She pulled the car into the driveway, stepping out onto the cracked asphalt and pulling the white, wooden door open as fast as she could.

The house was eerily quiet. There had always been noise: music playing, the occasional TV left on, the ever-present hum of the air conditioning. But now, there was nothing. Not even the sound of breathing, of life.

"Percy?" She called out into the house. Her own voice echoed back at her. "Percy?" She tried again.

"Percy! Please, honey, this isn't funny!" She tried again, beginning to walk around. Her feet brought her to the bedroom, where, at last, she heard breathing. Heavy, strained breathing.

"Percy?" She tried again, pushing the door, which was slightly ajar, open all the way.

Percy sat on the edge of their bed, his skin pasty and white, his lower lip trembling, a gun held to his temple.

She watched the shiny metal glint in the pale sunlight. Mesmerizing, almost. So beautiful, so pretty, so handsome. And yet so deadly. She felt sick.

"Percy, honey, please, please put the gun down." She begged him, bracing herself on the doorway.

"Please. Leave." He whispered, refusing to look her in the eye.

"Why would you throw it all away? Why would you ruin your life?" She whispered, bringing her fingertips to her mouth.

"Don't you see?" He muttered, laughing ruefully. "I already have."

"I….I don't understand…"

"I ruined my career. I ruined my marriage. I ruined my health…..and now….now I'm going to end my life. The life of a monster."

"You…you'd be selfish to take someone so great away from the world like that." She whispered, trying to keep the tears back from her eyes, trying to keep her voice calm and clear. Trying.

"I'd be doing the world a favor by removing myself from it." He whispered back.

"Please don't do this, please." She began to beg. "We can get you help! I won't leave your side! I'll help you! Please don't leave me!"

With that, he remained silent, the words hanging in his mouth, unsaid. There was nothing more to say. Nothing at all.

He gave her a look that was at once pitying, angry, sad, confused, hurt, and loving. She had hope. False hope. Because one didn't give looks like that when they were about to pull the trigger. They simply didn't.

And then, his finger slid along the barrel of the gun, and he pulled back, firing a lead bullet into his head at a rate of 700 miles per hour. He had done it.

He had pulled the trigger.


End file.
